


A Lovely Way to Spend an Evening

by Dragonie



Series: Rain in the Desert [8]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut, Gotta Spoil Your Boyfriend Janey, Not-So-Shameless Smut, One Day I Will Write Something Not Completely Self-Indulgent and Embarrassing, shameless fluff, today is not that day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-11
Updated: 2017-08-11
Packaged: 2018-12-14 04:53:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11775906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragonie/pseuds/Dragonie
Summary: Ulysses has been a soldier of the Legion, an agent of Caesar, a courier walking lonely roads, for most of his life. Hasn't seen much tenderness in his life, and the Courier aims to change that.Written for the August Month of Fanfiction Challenge, Day 10: "Smut".





	A Lovely Way to Spend an Evening

               Door in the Temple slides open with a pneumatic hiss. Courier doesn’t waste a minute, strides in like it’s her home now. (It is, if she wants it to be. Little enough to offer, he knows.) Rests rifle by the door, hat on the corner of an ancient storage locker, long stripped of all it once held. Drops her guard easily, now, Ulysses notices; quick to cast aside her tools of war, her hunter’s wariness, when they are alone. Effortless, for her, to switch from warrior to lover. Ulysses wonders at that, perhaps even admires it; there’d been little enough use for the latter face in the Legion, and the change doesn’t come easy to him.

    “I tell ya, man, it’s good to be back.” Shrugs off her duster in the stuffy air, rolling weary shoulders

    “Weren’t away long,” He brings up the rear, sets aside Old Glory carefully – reluctantly? – loosens the straps of his mask. “Only gone a few nights, slept rougher before; know you can say the same.”

    Been off hunting Tunnelers in the caves, thinning their numbers, destroying their queens; give the Mojave some breathing room, keeping the population stable. Slept huddled in corners of rubble and rock, weapons close at their sides, alternating watch.

    “Nah, it ain’t about comfort, or nothin’.” Kicks off her boots and drops gracelessly onto the greying mattress that passes for his – _their_ – bed. Treats his old quarters like she’d always been there; feels like she has, sometimes. “‘S about bein’ able to relax for a minute without worryin’ about Tunnelers creepin’ up behind you.”

    “Truth in that,” he concedes. Safety’s a welcome reprieve. He sits down next to her, cross-legged, ancient springs creaking under his weight. Leg brushes against hers; accident, perhaps, but the touch alone is near enough to make him flinch, make him very aware of how little lies between them. Something in her furtive glances says she’s thinking the same.

    Hasn’t been long since they first laid together, many years of solitude before it; still not used to what they have. Thought the Bull had beaten all want for _gentleness_ out of he and his brothers decades ago, thought any stubborn hope for solace would’ve fallen into cracks in the earth when the Divide tore open. Shocked himself, in _wanting_ her; not just a tumble in the dirt, a grunting release, but her hands, her lips on his battle-scarred skin, and his on hers. Realised it, was as if that Old World Wall had broken, couldn’t hold back the torrent of _needing_ , couldn’t find himself wanting to. In his mind, he’s already mapped every contour of her body, every scar, every sound she makes when he touches her; remembers it, like he remembers training drills, his mother’s stories, the reading of his hair. Has her memorised, but hesitates to reach for her, to touch her with hands trained for hurting. He’s used to the dull ache of loss carving a pit in his chest, the wistful sting of hopeless hope haunting his thoughts; not used to _having_ , won’t let himself feel it.

    (Dreamt, once, that he held her, and she turned to ashes in his arms, blew away with the wind.)

    So he waits, like a coward, for her to come to him, spare him the hesitation, uncertainty, show that she wants him.

    She is merciful, doesn’t leave him waiting long. Slides her arms around his waist, settles her head on his shoulder, holds him close. Hands warm on his stomach, his back, through the threadbare shirt. Hair brushes his cheek, fills his nostrils with the scent of her; wants to bury his face in it. Hot breath caresses his throat, raises gooseflesh there. His lips feel dry as Hopeville dust.

    She likes to hold him, he’s found, clings to him like hope. Lying, if he said he didn’t care for it himself, feel of her near him. Gentle Rain stays like that a while, long enough that he starts to think that this is all she wants from him tonight. Hungers for more, but he won’t complain. Strange enough that she wants anything from him, after the roads they’ve walked; might drive her away, lets himself get too greedy.

    –But then he feels her head shift, her lips graze the spot where his neck meets his shoulder. He lets a low noise of contentment – barely a sound – escape his throat, and she takes that as encouragement. Kisses harder, longer, mouth feeling hot enough to burn his skin and good enough that he won’t stop her even if it does. Long fingers snake their way under the hem of his ragged shirt, stroke the skin around his waist, trace around the mess of scar tissue at his hip. Hands moving slow, no urgency, heat lingering in all the places she touches.

    Ulysses takes her in his arms, pulls her to him; deciding he can be confident – not certain, never _certain_ with her, but confident – that he won’t be pushed away. She ends up in an ungainly sprawl, halfway across his lap, doesn’t seem to mind much.

    “Hn.” He buries his head into her neck, soft flesh under his lips. “Not just the safety you missed, see that.” Works his mouth against her throat, hand on her back to steady her. Fabric of her shirt is too light, made for the desert heat, won’t keep the feel of her body from him. She shivers at his touch, and he’s torn between feeling triumph and _relief_.

    Gentle Rain laughs and arches her neck, offers up new ground to his attentions.

    “Should take it as a compliment, man.” (Takes it as more than that.) Her hand snakes its way around the back of his neck, palm sliding over the nape of it, fingers twisting into his locks. “Got a girl tellin’ you she can’t get enough of you.” (Could say the same for him, perhaps; always seems to want more.) She pulls him in – forceful, but not rough, never gets rough with him, wouldn’t mind too much even if she did – and seeks his mouth. He responds hungrily, tasting her lips, her tongue, leaning into the kiss as if he could get any closer than he already is. She pulls away, teasingly, and he chases her; she goes on the attack and he opens his jaw even further, lets her in. She’s got a hand on his shoulder to steady herself; position’s awkward, would fall otherwise, collapse on top of him if he shifts too suddenly. Gives him an idea.

    He settles an arm around her waist, ready to roll her over, but she moves first. Swings a leg over him, straddling his torso, swallows his grunt of surprise. First time she’s done this; always let him get on top of her, before. Different from before, leaves him feeling more exposed, not sure what to make of it.

    She draws back; notices his hesitation, maybe. Kisses turn softer, gentler, an unspoken reassurance – _trust me_. (He does. Despite their history, he does.) He clings on to her, squeezes back, a wordless assent.

    (Best to keep her tight in his arms; had too much slip from them already.)

    She kisses him harder, now, squirms in his lap in her eagerness to taste him. Rubs against his groin in the movement, and his breath catches in his throat; she drinks up the sound. Can’t tell if this is intent or accident; can’t find it in himself to care too much either way, not with her hands clutching his head and her tongue down his throat and his fingers digging into her hips (shouldn’t do that, should let go, don’t want to hurt her). Feels himself start to harden beneath her.

    Gentle Rain tugs at the lapels of his duster, clumsily tears it down from his shoulders. His hands drop from her just long enough to help her strip him; too many layers between them anyway.

    “Mean to have your way with me, Courier?” he murmurs between kisses.

    “ _Mean_ to make you feel good,” she growls back, tugs at his lip with her teeth. Doesn’t bite hard enough to hurt; she’s careful even in her passion, Ulysses notes. Something touching in that; could probably bite right through his lip and he wouldn’t care too much, endured far worse at the hands of the Bull, beasts, bombs, but she’s always been determined not to cause him more pain. Her hands brush over his arms, tracing down lines of muscle, Twisted Hairs scars. “Seems like I’m doin’ my job, from the feel of it.” A hand moves over his own, slips down past his belt, caresses him, and he has to bite his lip to stifle a moan. Not had her so _eager_ , before; growing bolder, maybe, more comfortable sharing his bed. Wants to make him feel good? Not hard to do, not for her. Always touching him with gentleness, letting him inside of her, holding him afterwards; doesn’t know what that _means_ to him? Should _show_ her; push her down on the mattress, bury his head between her legs, taste of her until she screams his name, again and again…

    His hands roam her body, fondling, squeezing, pulling at her shirt until she brushes them aside. He gives her a curious glance, and she lays a hand flat against his chest, pushing him backwards. Wants him under her, he supposes… to ride him? Lying, if he said the thought of her taking him wasn’t exciting, but he’s never been good at being passive, too twitchy with the urge to act. He goes along with it, lies down on the mattress, lets her think she’s won. But when she settles over him, smirking, he suddenly seizes her by the waist, jerks his hip, rolls her bodily over onto the mattress with him on top.

    “Won’t find me so easy to tame, Gentle Rain,” he murmurs into her ear. Nibbles at the lobe, tries to coax a gasp from her.

    “Got me there,” she sighs, tries unsuccessfully to hold in her laughter. “Guess there ain’t nothin’ for it but surrenderin’ myself to you.” She folds her arms behind her head, relaxes beneath him.

    Ulysses chuckles against her throat. Good, that she’s not too disappointed by the turnaround. He’ll please her better this way, show her that. Lets one arm bear the brunt of his weight, keep it off her. Moves his head to kiss her, feels her mouth meld pliantly against his as the other hand works to free her shirt from her belt. She wraps her arms around his neck, pulling him in closer, making little contented noises as her strokes her flanks, her back. Drags his fingers in nonsense patterns over her skin and feels her squirm beneath him. Draws back from her mouth to nuzzle at her jaw, the hollow of her throat, gently worry at the skin there with his teeth. One of her hands still clutches at him, pressing his head in close, urging him on; the other makes its way down his side, stops at his belt. He thinks she’s going to make a play for his own shirt, repay him in kind; but then he feels her long fingers trail over his belly, slip past the waistband of his trousers, stroke the base of him with a fingertip, and he _shudders_ –

    Cunning woman takes advantage of his surprise, hooks a leg around his, flips him with a clever roll of the hips, doesn’t give him time for surprise before she straddles him once more. Could try to wrestle it out with her, he thinks; doesn’t, though. Piqued his curiosity, with her determination to be above him; wants to see what she does.

    “Deceitful woman,” he reproaches her, but can’t keep the hunger from his voice. “Using a coward’s tactics.”

    “Taste of your own medicine, I reckon,” Gentle Rain laughs, sits up over him.

    He feels her move against his groin with every shift, tries not to moan. Could have her now, if fabric didn’t bar the way, but seems she’s determined to torment him. She unbinds her braid leisurely, combs it loose with her fingers, lets it cascade from her head like a waterfall. He reaches for her, but she grabs his hands, laughing, twines her fingers with his. Squeezes his hands as she grinds against him, stops only when a strangled groan escapes his lips. Only then does she let go, bringing her hands up to the top button of her shirt, meeting his eyes with a wicked smirk as she undoes it slowly, _agonisingly_ slowly. He paws at her thighs, tries to rub in between, clothing or no, but she keeps shifting and nudging him away. Saw her biting her lip when she ground against him, trying not to make a sound, knows she must be feeling it too… If he could just touch her, maybe he could turn the tables, make her as impatient as he is. Wants to find her soaking, behind the jeans, ready for him... No, more than ready, _aching_ with want for all that he can give.

    She takes her time with every button, taunts him with each sliver of bare skin. He wets his lips, holds her tight around the hips; has every inch of her skin memorised and still drinks in the sight. She undoes the last button – _finally_ – and he’s on her in a flash, grabbing the shirt, _yanking_ it away. She wriggles out of it with a laugh, and he lets his hands wander over all that’s now bared to him; over her hipbones, her belly, her ribs, hearing her breathing catch from his questing fingers. Leans in to her chest to kiss and nibble at the thin straight scar over her heart, feels her pulse beat quick under his lips. Gentle Rain hugs his head, kisses falling like her namesake on his scalp, his forehead, the tip of his nose. He jerks his head up to capture her lips, tastes teeth and tongue.

    “Ain’t no need to rush.” She toys with the hair at the nape of his neck, twisting a lock around her finger. (She can’t read them well, hasn’t taught her of it yet save the part that marks her, but she knows there’s meaning in there and that’s more than almost everyone yet living.) “Not in any hurry.”

    “Cruel woman, to tease a man like this.” His hands roam her back, feel the scar down her spine long and straight like a highway, her skin burning hot under his fingertips. “Let me have you, show you what I can do for you…”

    “Not tonight.” Shakes her head, sending long hair rippling; presses a finger to his lips to silence him. He nibbles at the tip of it, hears her voice falter, feels a surge of triumph at it; proof he can make her want him, too. “Tonight I’m gonna kiss–” Trails fingers down the line of his jaw, follows with lips and teeth. “An’ touch–” Hands drag down his body, slow and soft, brushing over chest and flank. Come to rest on his hipbones, thumb making circles on the fabric of his trousers. “–Every damn inch of you.” Brushes hair from his sweat-soaked brow with one hand, the other still holding tight beneath. “And I ain’t stoppin’ until you’re so loved-up you can’t hardly stand it.” Is already, he thinks as she bends her head down, kisses him long and deep like she could melt into him. Clings to her, hand on the back of her neck, pulling her in as if to help her do so.

    “Want to leave me begging, then?” Ulysses is breathless, struggles to get the words out.

    “Nah.” Her fingers work under his shirt, pull it up and out of the way, bare more skin to her touch. “Just want you to feel it.” Makes a languid path up his belly, his chest, sends heat pooling in his groin, trousers far too tight already. Fingers rake through his chest hair, circle a nipple; he arches his back and tries not to groan, clutching at her shoulders, can do little else. Feels her smile against his cheek, hot breath washing against his skin as she laughs. No mockery in it, no triumph in his submission; only joy, fondness. Doesn’t know what to make of that, not yet, not used to _kindness_ she brings, to being _cared_ about, doesn’t know how to respond. Gentle Rain dips her head to his chest, sucking, nibbling, rolling her tongue over a hardened nipple, copying everything he likes to do to her, turns his own weapons back on him, unfair. He fights to stop his hips from bucking up under her as she moves, impatient, wanting to be inside her already, thrusting and panting and making her writhe. Let her ride him, if she wants; he’ll match her pace, see her come messily above him, because of him. Takes him, she’ll find he has plenty to give.

    He raises himself up on one elbow, tangles the other hand in her hair, pulls her close, kissing, lips grazing over the twin scars at her temple, hears her breath catch. (“Too late to kiss it better,” she laughed, first time he did that, but he knows she likes it anyway, as if his touch could wipe away the memory of the pain.) She arches into the touch as he runs a thumb down her spine, stops when he reaches her bra band, fumbling at the clasp with trembling fingers. She shows him mercy and unlatches the damn thing, lets it fall. Lets him palm at her breasts, look of contentment on her face as he grabs at soft flesh, stops him before he can put his mouth to them. Pulls his shirt the rest of the way off and pushes him back down against the mattress, leaning over him.

    “Stubborn woman,” he huffs.

    “Stubborn goddamn man,” she laughs, and kisses him.

    She resumes her progress down his body, strings a line of kisses down his stomach, sets her teeth to the flesh above his belt and makes him gasp. Long hair fans out over his chest like the wings of a bird, tickles as she moves down, and down. It’s too much, feels too good; he tugs at her own belt, clumsily works the buckle open, wants to make her as desperate for this as he is. Pulls down her jeans as far as he can, to mid-thigh; she smirks down, won’t make this easy for him.

    Ulysses slides a hand between his lover’s thighs, feels warm, soft skin, is rewarded with a squirm from her. Touches a finger to her, pleased to find her wet, soaking for him, proof that she wants this as much as he does, wants _him_ as he does her. She bites her lip to stifle a moan, pries his hand away. He’s about to protest when she kisses his fingers, places it over her heart, pulse beating loud and fast as war drums beneath his fingers.

    “Got other ideas tonight, my man.” She wriggles out of her jeans with a grin, loosens his trousers in kind; he kicks them off gladly. She settles back atop him, and he groans at the feeling of her, so close, a slight shuffle and a jerk of the hips and he’d be inside. She cups his face, and he slides a hand over hers, looks into her warm brown eyes and reads the feelings there, ones she no longer bothers to hide. Turns his head to kiss a palm and meets her eyes again. She grins down at him. “You just lie back, relax, an’ let me spoil you.” Punctuates the thought with a line of wet kisses down his Adam’s apple, onto his chest.

    His head feels full of fog, sandstorms. Spoil him? Shown him too much kindness as it stands. Already drinks up every fleeting touch like water in the desert; what more can he take than that? But she is determined, and he trusts her ( _has_ trusted her, with thoughts and truths hidden from all others), so he tries to relax, let her do with him as she pleases.

    “...At your mercy, then.”

    Gentle Rain laughs, continues her trail down his torso until she reaches coarse hair at the bottom. Takes him in hand, strokes once along his length, draws it out nice and slow; he hears himself keen in response, pleasure inundating his mind, drowning out all other thoughts. Hand tightens in her hair, maybe too tight, can’t think clear enough to tell right now. He’s as patient, passive, as he can be, for her. Feels _vulnerable_ , way he hasn’t in a very long time. She can tell, maybe; feels her smile as she presses a kiss to his hip, brings her hands back into motion.

    He breathes ragged as she works him, pumps leisurely from tip to base and back again, other hand cups his balls carefully, uncertainly. Strokes a thumb around the head of him, makes him whine through his teeth. She’s not the most experienced, he can tell, movements sometimes a little awkward – but it doesn’t matter, not when she touches him like this, gentle, treats him as if he’s something _precious_ to her–

    “I love ya, y’know that?” She regards him thoughtfully, gives his tip an experimental lick. He bucks his hips into her hand, another surge of pleasure lancing through him like an electric shock, crying out for more. “Hate goin’ back to the Mojave, knowin’ you ain’t comin’ with me.” Another delicate lick on his shaft, and he grits his teeth. “Miss you every damn day I’m gone.” Looks up at him with a mischievous smile. “And _achin_ ’ for you every night you ain’t in my bed.”

    “Not alone in tha– nnh!” He pants out, words cut short by a loud groan as she takes him in her mouth, tongue exploring the underside of him. He grips at her scalp, needs to hold her there, stay inside her, wet and hot, let her keep torturing him with her tongue. Shifts her head forward to take more of him inside, lick and suck every scrap of skin she can; moves back to let him slip part of the way out, taste the head with renewed fervour. She can’t take all of him, doesn’t have to; this is enough, more than enough, too much. His mind buzzes, feels like it’s detached from his head, riding the storm winds high above. He breathes hard, fast, head lolling back onto the mattress, both hands twisting in her hair, fingers clenching, groans every time her tongue swipes across his tip. Hooks a leg around her back as best he can, needs to feel her close to him, touch as much skin as he can get–

    She sucks the head, plays her tongue around it, and finally he comes with a strangled moan, taking all his willpower not to thrust up into her mouth. Watches her as she drinks him down without hesitation, clutchers her tight until the tremors subside. She pulls herself from his softening length, wrinkles her nose as she wipes her mouth, chuckles sheepishly as she catches his eye. He drags her into his arms, skin on sweat-soaked skin, cups her face and drags it close.

    “Hang on, you don’t wanna–” She protests, but it’s too late, he’s kissing her deep. Tastes his own seed on her tongue; might’ve cared about that, once, but too desperate, now, just wants more of her. Presses his forehead against hers, nuzzles nose to nose, cheek to cheek, stays as close as he can. She runs her hands over his back, lets him hold and stroke and kiss her in the afterglow, his heart still knocking at his ribcage, his legs still weak. Feels tension in her muscles, still; tightly wound up, didn’t finish,

    “Should apologise.” Ulysses plants a kiss on top of her head, inhales the scent of her, mixed with sweat and sex in the stuffy quarters.

    “S’okay,” Gentle Rain nestles into his arms. “Can finish myself off later.”

    He hums doubtfully. She lets out a weak chuckle, as if to reassure him, strokes his jaw.

    “Reckon you liked that, man.”

    He answers with a tired laugh, a peck on the forehead, almost chaste. Holds her there a while, tracing languid patterns between her shoulder blades. Can feel her fidget under his touch, the quickness of her breath as her chest rises and falls atop his, doesn’t sit right with him. Needs her to enjoy this too, needs to make her feel it. Creeps a hand up her thigh again, hears her gasp as he touches the apex, circles a finger around her entrance. So wet, for him; hasn’t even done half of what he could do, for her.

    “Told you, you don’t gotta…” Her voice is wavery, hitching at his touch.

    “Let me,” he murmurs. “Won’t leave you _wanting_ , Gentle Rain.” Only fair, show her the same kindness. She grips him tight, a silent consent; he slips a finger inside her, up to the knuckle, feels the wetness run down his fingers, the constricting heat of her. Joins it with a second and slides them in full, heard her gasp, thighs squeezing around the intruding hand. “Want to spoil me, let me hear you.” He strokes inside her, way she likes, pressing her close.

    “You want – oh, _god_ … – loud?” She grabs his face, kisses him hungrily between words and moans. “I’ll give you goddamn loud–” Words dissolve into a high keening sound as he presses his thumb to her clitoris, rubs in quick circles. She moans into his mouth and writhes, wriggles her hips, opens her thighs, all to urge his fingers in deeper. She stifles neither groan nor cry as he brings her to a crescendo, comes loud, practically sobbing; he lets her ride it out until she collapses bonelessly on top of him.

    She stays there a while, head resting on his shoulder, breathing hard; he makes no move to withdraw his fingers, lets them stay still inside her. She rolls to the side eventually, letting them slip out of her. Stays pressed up close to him, makes a pillow of his bicep. He stroke her hair idly, twisting long strands between his fingers as she nuzzles his chest, presses her face against his heart.

    “So,” Gentle Rain lets her hands run over his flanks, slow and languid in the post-coital haze. “You feelin’ loved yet, Ulysses?”

    “Hm,” he hums contentedly, drowsily. “Might need telling again, not sure I heard your message.”

    “Got some cheek in you,” she grumbles, burrows into him. He chuckles, strokes her hair until his breathing settles and sleep claims him, dozing off in her arms.

**Author's Note:**

> You know, my seventh grade English teacher once told me I was a very promising student.
> 
> Somehow, I don't think this is what she expected.
> 
> Anyway thanks for reading guys it's been real but now it's time for me to go jump in the sea forever byeeeeeeee
> 
> (Title taken from an Ink Spots song because I am an unoriginal hack)
> 
> [Edited 04/09/17 because I wrote the original in a hurry and reckon I can do better. Let me know what you think!]


End file.
